


Either you’re wrong or you’re right

by kopycat_101



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Awkward Flirting, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Budding Love, Closeted Character, Detective Noir, Feelings Realization, Flirting, Gay Male Character, M/M, Mutual Pining, Noir is incredibly gay and incredibly repressed, Noir: oh no he's hot, Peter B has big chaotic bi energy and thats just canon, Peter B manages a very effective smoulder, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, there's no hanky panky but like. a LOT of sexual tension.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22132579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kopycat_101/pseuds/kopycat_101
Summary: “You got any open appointments, in there?” comes a familiar voice, impishly teasing and warm. Noir scrambles to slide his mask full down his face as the door carefully cracks itself open.“Just don’t shoot, ‘kay? Don’t think I can survive an injury like that in your ‘verse, Noir,” the other says through a throaty chuckle that brings immediate warmth to Spider-Noir’s face.“Lucky thing you knocked before I shot, then,” Noir grunts, carefully lowering his pistol as the door fully swings open.In which Noir questions his already flimsy sexuality, and Peter B. is a big horny bi.
Relationships: Peter B. Parker & Peter Benjamin Parker, Peter B. Parker/Peter Benjamin Parker, Peter B. Parker/Spider-Noir
Comments: 14
Kudos: 86





	Either you’re wrong or you’re right

**Author's Note:**

> I'm late to the Spiderverse train bc I'm Poor and finally managed to buy the DVD/blu ray and watch it last month.
> 
> The fact that there's barely any Noir/Peter B content on this site is criminal, pun fully intended. Here's my attempts to add to the tag.

Peter Benjamin Parker—code-name Spider-Noir—was enjoying a nice smoke as he riffled through a mountain of forms splayed across the mahogany desk in front of him.

He’d just cleared out the office building a few scant minutes before. It was a decent-looking place, not yet taken by the rot of the Great Depression. There was an operation out of it that he’d gotten a whiff of by murmured half-whispers in the streets. Something foul hidden beneath an innocuous surface.

His hunch had been right, thankfully. He’d managed to sniff out the sickly-sweet stench beneath innocent brick and glass, as stark to him as the smell of vomit on clean tiles. Having followed the trail led him to here, where he is right now, combing through a paper trail with his very own hands to find the source of the rot.

Then a knock comes at the door, piercing the stagnant silence.

Noir is swift to stub his cig out on a corner of the desk; his other hand slides down to take his trusty pistol and aim at the door.

“You got any open appointments, in there?” comes a familiar voice, impishly teasing and warm. Noir scrambles to slide his mask full down his face as the door carefully cracks itself open.

“Just don’t shoot, ‘kay? Don’t think I can survive an injury like that in your ‘verse, Noir,” the other says through a throaty chuckle that brings immediate warmth to Spider-Noir’s covered face.

“Lucky thing you knocked before I shot, then,” Noir grunts, carefully lowering his pistol as the door fully swings open.

Before him stands his friend, grin crooked on his unshaven face, vibrant eyes crinkled in what appears to be fondness. The newcomer leans his hip against the doorway in casual grace, arms crossed, the muscles subtly bulging even under the material of his coat. He’s wearing that skin-tight suit of his that he’s so fond of, patterned with spider webs, the iconic arachnid placed in the middle of his broad chest. Slung low on his hips is a pair of trousers, baggy and bereft of a zipper, the swell of a healthy gut pushing the material down so there is a hint of the dip of hip bones through the spider-webbed material.

The way the other man smirks at him, with his oddly bright and straight teeth that look near ethereal, is quickly becoming a familiar sight to Noir.

“Good evening, Spider Man,” Noir nods at the other spider-themed vigilante hero.

“Oh, c’mon now, Noir,” Spider Man tuts with fake admonishment, pushing himself off the doorway and aiming a kick to close the door with a muted _thump_ , before striding purposefully into the room. He ain’t a typical long-legged beauty—though he _is_ fairly tall—but the way he walks is still rather captivating to watch. “I told you to call me Peter B.”

Noir, his eyes riveted by the way the other man prowls towards him with such assured confidence, forces his voice to come out flat and dispassionate as he answers back, “And I’d think we have already gone over why I can’t do that, Spider Man.”

Spider Man is now in front of the impressive mahogany desk Noir is sitting behind. Noir’s heart seems to skip a beat, thrumming in his chest; it’s a mystery as to why it does so.

Instead of taking one of the chairs placed in front of the desk—as any other normal human being would do—the scruffy-looking man instead decides to make Noir’s job infinitely harder by sitting on the desk itself.

Spider Man seems to make himself at home, right leg folded in a triangle as the left dangles off the desk. Various forms are lost to the unyielding placement of Spider Man’s expansive thigh and plump behind, and Noir internally bemoans that he cannot scan the entirety of the desk now, with this new development. At least, not with the previous ease he had but a few minutes prior.

“Hm, yeah—I s’pose it’s weird, when your name’s _also_ Peter B. Parker, huh?” Spider Man wonders idly while he purposefully places his right hand smack-dab on top of a pile of forms. “What was it again?”

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” Noir answers tightly, gaze flitting between the stack of forms under Spider Man’s hand, and the crooked little grin on his unshaven face. He knows the other man is simply toying with him, but it’s not threatening so much as it is a gentle teasing born out of a strongly-forged friendship and feeling completely at-ease.

“Huh. Nearly the same name. Mine’s just Peter Ben Parker,” Spider Man muses, leaning his weight against his arm, which in turn leans his face closer to survey Noir than what he is comfortable with. Noir, not for the first time, is thankful for the sanctuary his mask provides.

“Still, we have to figure out this whole name deal,” Spider Man hums, that oh-so-charming grin still in place as his unoccupied hand gestures between the two of them. “Y’know, at some point. I don’t want you calling me Spider Man the entire time we’ve got _this_ going on.” Whatever does he mean by ‘ _this_ ’? Their… occasional partnership?

Noir tilts his head. “I don’t understand what exactly you are implying,” he says bluntly, because if he doesn’t state it outright, he might get talked around in circles by the other vigilante.

Spider Man snorts, but his grin never wavers. “Look, I’m only Spider Man when I’ve got the mask on, right? Gotta keep those lives separate _some_ how.”

The other man _does_ have a bit of a point, he supposes. As vigilantes, there must be a divide between their personas and their average lives. It is why they chose code names to refer to the crime-fighting spheres of their lives, after all.

“How do you suppose we accomplish this, then, when our names are so similar?” Noir asks dryly, sitting back as he watches a flustered expression settle on the other man’s face.

“Well…Well! I thought, hey, that’s something we could figure out, y’know…?” Spider Man says, sheepishly clearing his throat. “I mean, sometimes I get called Pete, or P.B. You got any nicknames like that?”

Noir considers this, face hidden by his mask so he can freely take in every detail of Spider Man’s suddenly nervous visage. “I am simply called Peter. Sometimes, Parker.”

“Well, I don’t want to call you Noir the entire time,” Spider Man sighs, lips twisted into a slight grimace. “That seems…impersonal?”

“It’s the code name I’ve taken for myself. I believe it fits just fine,” Noir can’t help but huff. Spider Man blinks at him, owl-like, both parts confused and amused.

“Alright, alright. I’ll think of something later,” Spider Man says, voice taking on a soothing quality, before his lips crook up once more in a smile. He leans ever closer to Noir, pointer finger dramatically falling in front of the goggles of Noir’s mask, and states, “Just call me P.B., then! That’ll solve one of our problems.”

“I…Alright?” Noir states, momentarily taken aback. He utters a gusty sigh at the other’s beaming, smug expression. “I suppose… if you insist upon it…”

“C’mon, say it,” Spider Man nettles, voice drawn out and teasing. He even dares to poke at the cheek of Noir’s mask, and Noir finds himself flushing, startled under the attention.

“Isn’t it…strange…to simply say your name with no prompting?” Noir hedges, only to get another poke at his masked cheek for his struggle.

“Don’t try to get out of this, Noir,” the older man sing-songs, looking far too amused and invested. “Sayyyy it.”

Noir sighs, rolling his eyes behind his mask. “Fine.” A pause, as he’s given a pointed look. “…P.B.”

“There we go!” Spider Man—P.B.—whoops with a bright laugh, throwing his head back to show off the tantalizing length of his neck. Noir is roused from his inspection of the other man’s bobbing Adam’s apple as P.B. leans back down, snapping his fingers in front of Noir’s mask. “See, now, was that so hard…?”

The other man’s voice is teasing and oh-so-fond, and it leaves Noir oddly a bit speechless. His mouth is dry as he swallows, attempting to find a respectable response to the whirlwind that is Peter B. Parker.

“Your insistence certainly made it harder than it needed to be, I’m sure,” Noir manages to rasp out, a shiver crawling down his spine at the low chuckle he gets in response.

“Oh…?” P.B. all but purrs, leaning further into Noir’s space. He smells faintly of musk and salt and a bit of grease, Noir notes wildly, and it should be a bit gross but it’s _not_. P.B. blinks those vibrant eyes of his at Noir, lashes fluttering and looking long and delicate enough they wouldn’t be out of place on a woman’s face.

It’s too much too quick to take in, all these little details that flit about his mind like a hummingbird. His heart is jack-hammering in his chest, now, so hard it nearly rattles his entire body into the shakes, and—

Then the other man falls forwards, hand slipping off the stack of papers it was propped up against, scattering the sheets around them. P.B. emits a choked-off noise, eyes wide like a startled doe.

Noir’s body moves automatically. His gloved hands dart out, holding onto the scruffy-looking man’s shoulders to take his weight and stop his descent, while the other’s hands all but splay themselves against Noir’s chest. Their faces are close, too close, barely saved from being knocked against one another painfully.

A beat passes, then two. Noir feels his face _burn_ behind his mask, barely containing a shiver as the other man’s hands spread out across his chest, carefully roaming and mapping.

There’s something hungry in P.B.’s gleaming eyes, now. The other man gives a slow look up and down Noir’s body, an approving and curious hum slipping past plump lips. When bright eyes settle back to stare down Noir, the look he’s given is downright _sultry_ , eyes at half mast with a roguish flash of teeth.

He should _not_ look as seductive as he does, half-splayed across the desk, long legs dangling off the other edge. But he _does_ , and Noir’s questioning everything he’s ever known, because _men should not look this downright attractive_.

P.B.’s tongue makes a sweep across smirking lips, Noir’s eyes drawn to the movement like a moth to a flame. He fights down the sudden urge to shove aside his mask and lick a stripe across the other man’s lips, chasing the gleaming path that P.B. oh so helpfully laid out, and—

The other man leans ever closer, but instead shifts his face so he can speak in Noir’s ear. “You know…I don’t think I’ll be satisfied with how my name sounds on your lips, ‘til you’re screaming out my name, babe,” he drawls out huskily, and, _oh_.

Oh _no_.

Noir can’t help the mewling whine that stutters past his lips, nearly ripped from his throat as if he’s some sort of spooked animal in heat, fueled by a sudden feeling of _want_. He’s soon squirming a bit in his seat at the rush of heat in his lower belly that makes his thighs subtly twitch and tremble.

He’s also completely mortified as soon as he realizes the sound he’s made.

The chuckle he gains in answer for his troubles, his moment of vocal weakness, sends lightning straight down his spine and down past his gut.

It’s pathetic. It’s disorienting. It’s something that _should not be happening_.

P.B. pulls back, much to slow and much too long of a wait after his statement. If there was truly any way to interpret anything he’s done as _purely platonic_ , it’s long fled by now, Noir thinks with complete disorientation and just a bit of mounting panic.

P.B shoots Noir a winning smile with all the innocence of the devil himself—and wouldn’t _that_ be a perfect explanation as to how easily Noir’s been seduced?—before shuffling on his knees. With surprisingly limberness, the older man has managed to easily slide off the desk, adjusting and smoothing his clothing in a respectable state.

“At first, I thought I’d been dropped in the middle of another fight I needed to help you with. Seems like it was just a false alarm, huh?” he asks cheekily, voice a chipper chirp. It’s a complete inversion from his previous tone, which had been dripping with lust and sex appeal. The sudden contrast has Noir’s mind reeling, spinning uselessly ‘round and ‘round.

Before Noir can get another word in edge-wise—or even an inquiry as to why P.B. deemed it necessary to play him so thoroughly like a fiddle this evening—the other man is already turning around and striding towards the door.

Though, it is less of a stride, and more of a…sashay. That’s the only word to describe the older man’s gait, both languid and purposeful, with more swiveling hip movement than is wholly necessary. It brings Noir’s gaze down to his hips, then his—

Well. It seems to emphasize certain…ahem. Assets. So to speak.

Noir is once more grateful for his mask to cover his expressions, but with the way P.B. is looking at him over his shoulder— rather knowingly and smugly—it seems like his mask isn’t quite effective in the current moment.

P.B. throws a ridiculously saucy wink over his shoulder at Noir, before he wrenches open the office door. He’s just about rounded the corner—Noir slumping down in his seat, the breath leaving him in a rush— before he pops back again in the doorway.

Noir is frozen in place, still slumped in his seat and no doubt looking rather haggard. But P.B. simply smiles at him, crooked with crinkled eyes, doubling back to send a little wave with his fingers.

“See ya later, babe!”

As if under a compulsion, Noir gives a weak wave back. Thankfully, he has enough of his mind left to not vocally respond and embarrass himself even _further_.

The other man laughs unabashedly, throwing his head back, baring his neck once more. This is the last image of him that Noir sees—so confident and joyous and breathtakingly beautiful—before the other man ducks back out of the doorway, a sudden glow emanating from the hallway.

Even without having full visual of the ordeal, Noir knows that Peter B. Parker disappears in a miasma of sparks and colors, jumping into the dimensional rift that will launch him back home.

The hall goes dark once more. Noir—knowing now that he is alone—fumblingly paws at his mask and shucks it off, letting it clatter carelessly on the desk. He’s exhausted, and winded, and feels so coiled tight he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He puts his gloved hands on his face and gives a pitiful groan, the sound smothered, but not silenced. His face is warm with a luminescent blush, felt even through the leather of his gloves. No doubt his ears are also burning, as well. His Aunt always teased him for blushing with his entire body when flustered.

This isn’t his fault, though, not this time. It is, without a doubt, P.B.’s. That…That _incorrigible_ , utter _minx_ of a man.

Noir’s not sure what he’s feeling, exactly, other than a very confuddling sea of emotion he hasn’t ever really felt before. Embarrassment is in the forefront, naturally, but there’s more than that at play. Fondness. Giddiness. Exhilaration. Perhaps even _arousal_ , of all things.

So, there he is. Noir is left very much confused and very much aroused, still seated at the desk in the main office of an enemy base. His breath is short, his face is warm, and his trousers feel oddly and uncomfortably tight.

He curses the other man’s name aloud in a garbled whisper through gloved fingers. He also wishes that, for once, P.B. could have stayed a bit longer.

(After all, he’s not exactly sure how to deal with the stiffness in his trousers that won’t end with him feeling sinful and utter shame. P.B. seems like the type of shameless man that wouldn’t mind showing him a solution…

This train of thought also bolsters the time Noir has to wait to _calm down_ , so to speak.)

By the time it’s nightfall, he’s left the base and is no closer to knowing a concrete answer to the crime ring in the city than he had when he first infiltrated the building.

Although, Noir’s not sure he can say it was an utter waste of time…

* * *

The second Peter B. Parker’s back in his own dimension—dropped off in the middle of his lonely apartment—he can’t help but give a whooping cackle of joy, fist-pumping the air.

He feels absolutely _exhilarated_. His heart’s drumming, blood singing through his veins.

He feels… _alive_ , in a way he hasn’t in a long time. He feels young and powerful, again, like he’s back in his twenties and in the dating scene.

“I’ve still got it…!” he sing-songs, fist-pumping once more, before breaking out into a silly little dance.

It would be embarrassing, if anyone else was here to watch him flail around. But he’s in the privacy of his apartment, so he can act like a fool however much he damn well pleases.

And he very well knows he’s acting like a stupid little kid again—like a teenager barely going through puberty and having his first love. Over the moon and with stars in his eyes, a horde of butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

But it’s been a good while since he’s managed to be so utterly charming and suave, he’d almost thought he’d lost the ability altogether. Sure, as Spider Man, he could make quips and be cool and sexy—but that was Spider Man. That was him with the suit and mask on, with the anonymity that came with it, a natural shield and a built-in confidence booster.

Spider Man was charming and cool and a dreamboat, a superhero that protected the city. Peter B. Parker was an out-of-shape divorcee nearly hitting forty, miserably alone and battling severe depression. Peter’s long since stopped trying to find someone else to be with since M.J. broke things off, and whatever attempts he _did_ make since then were half-assed that led to unsatisfying one-night-stands and awkward mornings.

It’s why, landing in Spider-Noir’s world and seeing how dark and dreary it was, he’d gravitated towards Noir. Seeing how utterly stressed Noir was, in need of someone to help unwind—it made him feel like he needed to _try_.

Noir has seen him as he is now, in not the greatest shape nor mental state, and hasn’t judged him for it. The man’s so serious all the time, but also seems so _lonely_ , always subtly perking up when the stars align and Peter ends up dropping by. It’d be awful if he didn’t put in at least a chance effort into cheering up Noir—and maybe more than just _cheering up_ , if he was allowed.

Peter’s rusty, and he knows it. He hadn’t exactly expected much to come from him flirting so horribly obviously with Noir. But, miracle of all miracles, it had _worked_.

Maybe Noir just wasn’t used to being flirted with— though Peter thinks that’s utterly _criminal_ , really, considering how well-built Noir was, and how sexily deep a voice he had. The man must be _swimming_ in admirers, he’d thought.

But when Peter started to put the moves on him, Noir had frozen up and acted like a shy little maiden to his advances, confused and flustered and trying to hide it. Even without being able to see through that leather mask of his, from body language alone, Peter could tell he’d had an effect on Noir. Noir was all but putty under his hands, as he managed a _very_ effective smolder, if he does say so himself.

It’d taken all of Peter’s will to not just slide down into Noir’s lap then and there. To try to seal the deal, so to speak. But if Noir was so affected by what little he really managed—hands smoothing over his chest, a murmured promise, and posturing catwalk, a little wink and wave—Peter’s pretty sure Noir would go _catatonic_ if he did anything further.

He had to take things slow, or else he’d scare off the poor man. But it was still pretty exciting, to figure out just what made Noir tick, how far he could carefully push him.

Putting himself out there and successfully seducing Noir… It made Peter feel sensual and fully confident in himself and his body, for once not worrying about his inflated gut and pudge. It made him feel experienced and liberated, instead of old and desperately chasing youth. It made him feel _wanted_ , even _desired_ , like he had anything worth giving someone younger and so much better than him.

For the first time in years, Peter felt like, yeah. He’s still got it in him to win someone’s heart. He could totally do it. He’s still a catch.

Peter falls back onto his bed, the old mattress springs creaking with the motion, eyes distant as he played it all over in his head. The feel of Noir’s chiseled chest under his hands, the rasp of the others’ voice, that cute little flustered whine when Noir squirmed in his chair just from Peter’s words alone…

He let out a breathless chuckle, palming himself over his sweats, and wonders if Noir was so _affected_ he couldn’t leave the desk for a few minutes after Peter had left.

Probably. Noir seemed so utterly repressed, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself afterwards. Heh.

Peter smirks wide, eyes fluttering closed, and decides he’s going to do whatever possible to make Noir shout his name in pure ecstasy, if it’s the last thing he does.

(Or, well. Make him shout his name in the real world, and not just his fantasies. Though they’re pretty good too, Peter wants to coax out every little noise from Noir’s lips that he can, in person.

It’ll be a fun challenge. And Peter likes challenges.)

* * *


End file.
